


No Need To Ask

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Time, M/M, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 14:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14310570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Winter Soldier is jealous of a ghost...





	No Need To Ask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chase_acow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chase_acow/gifts).



Bucky first glimpses Wilson’s soulmark when they’re changing for a mission – Bucky’s first mission as an Avenger.

He’s more than a little nervous; there’s been a full campaign to ‘rebrand’ him – Pepper Potts’ brilliant idea, executed with the steel nerves of Maria Hill, and with both Steve and Stark’s full endorsement. If Stark’s reaction is more measured and less enthusiastic than Steve’s, well, that’s only to be expected, isn’t it?

Although Bucky’s not sure why it should be expected; it just is.

In all honesty, though, the person who scares Bucky most is Wilson.

He tells himself it’s because Wilson’s so close to Steve – the friend Steve needed and still needs in the modern world, because Wilson’s fought against him and fought alongside him, because Wilson smiles and jokes but holds a part of himself in reserve...

He’s lying to himself.

And it strikes home as they prep for that first mission; Wilson stripping off his polo tee in the locker room, reaching for the suit which goes under his wing pack. Bucky catches the glint of gold against dark skin and turns, curious, just in time to see Wilson pull the undershirt down over a delicate tracery of glyphs that centre around his spine.

He stares, because he hasn’t seen a soulmark since he was a kid. His parents had soulmarks – the sharp, clean lines of their design a fascination to their children. They’ve always been rare – not everyone has a soulmate, after all – and then there’s the added complication of having to work out exactly who your soulmate is in the first place. The mark only appears when your soulmate touches you, and grows and spreads as your emotional connection develops.

By the time Bucky went off to war, his parents’ soulmarks were an intricate weave of lines, curving and straight, like a calligraphy of souls bound in love and commitment.

The couple in Hong Kong, on the other hand, hadn’t been together long – a few shimmering lines gleaming in her spine by the light of the bedside table—before blood spattered down the markings as the bullet tore through her skull—her lover screaming in horror and agony before Bucky shot him, too—

“Hey.” Wilson glances over at him. “Barnes?”

“I’m fine.” The words blurt from his lips, but his hands are shaking.

_It wasn’t your will,_ says a voice in his memory, young and accented, a woman he can’t quite picture, although he remembers the intensity of her – all the force of a miniature sun.  _You did it because you weren’t able to resist what they did to you. But you wouldn’t have done it if you were in your right mind._

Wilson’s fingers close around his, long, warm fingers lacing into his with no self-consciousness, gripping hard. Bucky grips back, then eases back, realising he’s probably crushing the other man’s hands. “Sorry.”

“I think I’ve still got some feeling in my fingertips.” But that’s all Wilson says before he looks intently into Bucky’s eyes. “Flashback?”

“Yes.” Bucky swallows. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Wilson shrugs. “When you’re ready, then.” He hesitates for a long couple of moments, during which Bucky tries not to notice the length of Wilson’s lashes. “You’re sure you’re good?”

Bucky exhales a little shakily. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good.” Wilson smiles, and a deep hole opens up in Bucky’s belly. “So...will you let go of my hands, then?”

–

He doesn’t ask about the soulmark – it’s none of his business. He doesn’t think about it – not much, anyway. But when he does, it kind of bothers him, for...reasons he’s not sure he can explain.

There’s a lot of things he can’t explain.

Things such as why the sight of Howard’s son fills him with a deep gut-panic, or why overhearing Hill argue with someone called ‘Nick’ on the phone makes his spine crawl, or why finding Wilson fast asleep on the couch makes his heart pound in his chest.

On the television, a couple of commentators are blathering on about the just-played basketball match and the winner’s chances in the playoffs later this year. On the coffee table, an empty beer bottle sits beside a dish of watermelon rind pickles and soft cheese. On the couch, Wilson curls on his side with one hand resting over his eyes, the other arm sticking out off the couch, comfortable and relaxed. The expressive eyes are closed, the sensuous lips slightly parted, the long, lean body at ease.

Bucky stands by the coffee table and snags a piece of pickle, pops it in his mouth. Vinegar sparkles tart on his tastebuds, a mouthful of sour to jolt the senses as he lets his gaze rest on

He lives through his senses, these days, the freedom of being out from HYDRA’s thumb, of making his own choices, of being his own man.

Wilson shifts, shifting onto his back, and his track pants pull tight across his groin as he shifts his hips to be more comfortable on the couch. From the way the fabric stretches, he’s either built big or else already half-hard.

Bucky swallows. He’s half-hard himself, and the sensation is...a little scary.

He hasn’t wanted anyone like this since...well, since before the fall from the train. There were a couple of guys in the war – but they were casual, a night here or there, easy pleasure and release, the reckless sexuality of men who might die tomorrow, but were going to  _live_ tonight.

He isn’t going to think about what was done to him as the Winter Soldier. The memories are sketchy, but what he does remember is enough to tell him that his use wasn’t always military.

This is Wilson. He’s Steve’s best friend, a fellow Avenger, and one of the very few people who’s been under fire from Bucky  and  forgiven him.

He’s one of the very few people who’s been under fire from Bucky and  _survived_ .

If there’s anyone that Bucky had to want like this, Wilson is probably one of the best choices Bucky could hope for.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Bucky is kneeling down beside the couch. He reaches out, tracing the swell of Wilson’s dick with his fingertips, pleased when it rises to meet his touch. And Wilson grunts low in his throat as Bucky strokes him through the cotton tracksuit pants, up and down.

It’s not enough.

He wants flesh against flesh, the thick weight of Wilson’s erection in his hand, swollen and pulsing as he pumps it in his fingers. He wants to slide his tongue across the tip, suck the head, swallow the shaft until it’s so deep in his throat he won’t taste it when Wilson comes—

It’s a bad idea. Such a bad idea.

Somehow, it being a terrible idea doesn’t equate to not doing it.

Soft cotton gives way to damp flesh. Wilson moans, but he’s still in the throes of sleep. Emboldened, Bucky slides his fingers around Wilson’s cock in a harder stroke, up and down, pulling at the waistband to get more access, so he can fix his mouth on the salty dark tip and suck—

A hand lands in his hair, tentative and gentle, stroking his hair.

Encouraged, Bucky licks the crease in the tip, using his tongue roughly against the glans as he trails his fingers down the underside to Wilson’s balls, cupping them in his fingers as he leans over.

“Riley—?” Wilson murmurs, then jerks, coming fully awake. “Oh _fuck_ —”

Bucky’s thrust himself down onto the thick column of Wilson’s erection, throat working desperately against the gag reflex. The hand in his hair isn’t gentle anymore, but he doesn’t care.

But Wilson is about to come undone in  _Bucky’s_ mouth, with Bucky’s hand pressing against his belly, with Bucky’s fingers cupped around his balls.

“Fucking hell. Oh _fuck, OH FUCK—_ ”

Wilson moans, his whole body arching in orgasm as he ejaculates into Bucky’s throat, too far gone to stop. And Bucky swallows in reflex, eases back off Wilsons’s cock, and takes the pain of the hand fisted in his hair without flinching.

“What the fuck was that?” Wilson pants. “Where did that come from?”

Sitting back on his haunches, Bucky looks into Wilson’s wild and disbelieving expression. “I wanted to do that.” But that distances him from the conversation. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I wanted you.”

For a few seconds, Wilson’s expression is blank as a closed up shopfront as he stares at Bucky. His grip in Bucky’s hair loosens, even as his chest heaves. Then he almost shoves at Bucky’s head, tucks himself away, and swings his legs off the couch. About to get up, he pauses and stares straight ahead, his expression grim.

“Want or not, you don’t _ever_ do that without my permission.”

He doesn’t wait for Bucky’s answer, but stands and walks out of the room. If his gait isn’t entirely steady...well, he just woke up while coming like a freight train in Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky swallows.

That went better than he had any right to expect.

–

_Who’s Riley?_

Bucky does research on Wilson.

Well, he did some already, now he digs deeper.

And discovers Riley O’Donnell was Sam Wilson’s paramedic partner. Posthumous commendation for valor – he was taken out by an RPG during an early morning extraction, with the body never recovered – assuming there was anything to recover.

There’s a picture of him and Wilson back in 2007, arms around each other’s shoulders, close as brothers, unless one notices the way Riley’s head is angled towards Sam, the way Wilson’s fingertips rest dark on Riley’s bare shoulder, just shy of the sleeve edge.

O’Donnell would have borne a mark from that touch – something in gold or silver or black or bronze. Ultimately the color wasn’t relevant, just that the marks changed with every skin touch between soulmates – shifting and flowing, curling and uncurling across the skin like a moving tattoo.

Only Wilson’s mark is fixed, his soulmate lost to him.

It’s not the end of the world; not the end of life and living. Wilson survives, even thrives. He smiles and laughs and flirts with women, and says nothing of the man he’s lost and who he can never touch again.

_You don’t ever do that without my permission._

Riley O’Donnell wouldn’t have had to ask.

 


End file.
